This probably isn’t the way to get an HBO show, but what if it is?
Jay Z believes you can speak things into existence, and everything I’ve ever wanted in life, I’ve somehow spoken into existence.
I guess the problem is, I have no experience in video or film or even YouTube. But I am a writer with a story that doesn’t exist in the public eye, and as we live through this Golden Age of Content, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it should.
It would be about an editor of a university magazine. She would meet all sorts of fascinating people—students, professors, the coolest fucking alumni, each with interesting stories and insightful messages for her readers, for her life, for her broader understanding of the world.
“It’s like Melrose Place, but with ugly people.”
-My former boss on the higher ed industry
She would navigate the delightfully batshit world of academe, where, as one colleague put it, “people are cutthroat because the stakes are so low.” Or as her former boss once said, “It’s like Melrose Place but with ugly people.” Or as her friend once joked of her master’s degree in Higher Education Management, “Shouldn’t it be kindergarten management instead?”
She would dress fly as hell. She’d smoke weed unapologetically. She’d have two young kids and would strive to be a great mother and role model, but she would be imperfect. She’d drink. She’d smoke. She’d party. She’d work at a “party school,” after all, so it would all be very “on brand.”
She’d be beautiful and brown and Indian American. She’d respect Kamala Harris and idolize Beyoncé, but she’d also be fascinated by Candace Owens (Like, how did she go from making fun of Donald Trump’s tiny penis to wearing MAGA hats? How did the racist, sexually violent threats Owens received as a teenager shape her understanding of the world? How does she define power and control? Is there a relationship between Owens’ views on politics and the traumas that led to her eating disorder?)
This university magazine editor would love ambitious, intelligent, hardworking, imperfect women, but she would often remember the words of Alvin Turner and Alan Fox and wonder why some of her best writing was about men.
She would help raise money for academic and entrepreneurial programs that support agricultural education at Historically Black Colleges and Universities, ensuring that the next generation of growers and sellers—of all races, but especially those most victimized and brutalized by racist drug policy—got their start at HBCUs.
Maybe she’d work for Monogram, Jay Z’s cannabis company. Or write celebrity profiles for GQ and Vanity Fair and Esquire.
She’d be a witch. The self-ascribed label would begin as a joke about flying high but would morph into her understanding of power and divine femininity.
She wouldn’t want any of these dreams if it would in any way harm her kids or her marriage.
But if she were speaking ideas into existence, she’d create a hit show that’s tender and funny and honest and interesting. Stoned in the Suburbs. Higher Education. The High Mom Diaries.
She’s still figuring out the name. But it would be great TV. With lots of hot, gratuitous sex.